


Grandloves

by Theboys



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Bottom Sam, Dirty Talk, Emotional Manipulation, F/M, Gen, Mental Instability, Possessive Behavior, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-26
Updated: 2016-01-26
Packaged: 2018-05-16 10:04:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,504
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5824414
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Theboys/pseuds/Theboys
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sammy’s ass is ripe and flush with Dean’s dick; two layers of cotton and denim separate Dean from the rut.</p><p>Dean's not in the business of denial or sharing, and Sammy likes it just that way.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Grandloves

**Author's Note:**

  * For [protectbillycranston](https://archiveofourown.org/users/protectbillycranston/gifts).



> Okay.  
> So a few weeks ago, I read the most bomb fic by fuckboypadalecki (go check that out) and I realized that I needed to throw my lot in (cast my pot in)? I'm really bad with colloquialisms. Anywho, this is that attempt. I wrote this so quickly, so apologies for any glaring mistakes. Also, this was the time I promised myself that I would keep it under 2k, and that didn't happen. Anyway, here's Wonderwall. 
> 
> Also, spoiler at the end of the fic, because I haven't warned for it in the tags.

Sammy’s loose-limbed, jungle-rat kid in every regard.

His hair’s too long for the leather-tan of his body, and his cheeks dig in vicious when he smiles, a weapon in the first-degree.

Sammy climbs on top of his legs like brick-a-brack when he’s twelve, knobby-spine and peach-smooth legs hugging around Dean’s waist like ownership.

Dean’s dizzy with it, the baltic tea of his brother.

Sam’s hair is messy, locks tangled together with the need of a good brushing, and his skin’s raspberry-flushed, scrubbed clean in his most recent bath.

Dean’s half hard around all forms of water now; the silk-shine of his brother, naked in the murk of his own filth, angel-boy.

Sammy’s got Dean’s old Eagles shirt twisted around his boy-body, grey-dull of The Long Run tangled around his neckline, slipping from one finespun shoulder blade.

Dean’s shaking with it; he’s sixteen and coalesced with his baby brother. Sammy huffs out his air so quiet when he climbs up, as if he’s having trouble with the endeavor.

Dean grips the edges of the chair so tight he can feel the grooves tattooed into his flesh, and he’s trembling real fine when Sammy finally situates himself on top.

Sammy’s ass is ripe and flush with Dean’s dick; two layers of cotton and denim separate Dean from the rut. 

Sammy spreads water-logged fingers against Dean’s chest and grunts softly as he adjusts himself, rubs his fruit-stained ass right into Dean’s dick and Dean’s not prepared to die tonight.

“Sammy?” Dean says, so stupid with words and the smell of Sammy’s little boy body that he’s not firing on near all cylinders.

Sammy tilts his head up and up, catches Dean’s eye. His lower lip is pinched in the cage of his teeth and tongue, and his lashes are wet, bogged down with the water he never dries from his face.

“M’tired,” he says, and Dean can’t help the gurgle that pumps from his throat, and even Sammy looks shocked, wiggles his Teenage Jail-cheeks right on back in Dean’s lap, the crease of his ass riding the oh-so-tight line of Dean’s dick.

Sammy jumps at the feeling, digs the blunt ends of his nails into Dean’s biceps and holds firm.

“De-Dean?” He asks, carnival-sweet, and Dean actually feels the cut of wood slice into his skin, the effervescent pool of blood in the wound.

Dean jerks in residual pain, and cradles his hand close to his chest. 

Sammy bumps up against the ridge of his dick once more as he drags that ass forward, settles down over the teeth of Dean’s zipper.

“You hurt yourself?” Sammy questions, and he’s already reaching for Dean’s hand, grabby in that possessive way Sammy has, sun-raisin of his palms.

Dean hisses with touch and ache, and Sammy’s head wrinkles at the sight of the blood, dime-ridge sliver of it.

Sam pulls the wound to his mouth and kitten-licks, cream-clean of the blood, and Dean whimpers so low that it sounds more like a growl.

Sammy pulls back, mouth still pursed in absolution, and Dean’s hand comes up against his will, swipes against Sammy’s wine-lips.

“M’scared of the dark,” Sam whispers, and Dean’s rising then, Sam-legs even tighter around the homegrown jut of Dean’s hips.

Dean lays his little brother dead center of the bed and peels back starch-ridden blankets to curl himself around Sam’s small body, question mark of safety.

Dean’s hand shakes when he reaches out to tug his t-shirt up the valley of Sam’s chest, and he settles for looking away instead.

-

Dean catches Sammy open mouthed against a bruise of another boy when his little brother’s fifteen, thin line of his body curled into a larger one.

Dean’s always considered himself justifiable violence; he’s constructed of loss and brutality, but he’s always been able to shape it into something worthwhile.

Sam’s eyes flit open in the dusk to dawn second before the kiss ends, and they catch on Dean’s.

Dean wants to say he sees terror, but Sam’s eyes fasten and they’re indurated, darkwild things.

Dean’s dragging the other body away, waste of flesh, and the boy is fair-skinned. His embarrassment lights up his body like a cancer and Dean ignores him for want of Sammy.

Sam’s mouth is obscene, rose-blush of sin, and Dean’s hand comes up against his will; he’s about to backhand the other kid into oblivion, but Sam grabs his arm, touch to Earth.

“Let ‘im go,” Sam says, bright glance in his partner’s direction. The kid’s taller than Sam is, even though Dean can see the growth lingering in Sammy’s body, but the boy looks hunched right now, black eyes darting from brother to brother.

Dean thinks the kid is a fool, standing here where Dean can still contemplate how to wring the life from his skin, but Sammy’s looking at the other boy all crooked, surprise evident in his eyes.

Dean doesn’t know what Sammy sees and it irks him, the disconnect, and he grabs the boy by his bicep, digs his fingers in until the kid cries out, broken O of pain.

“Don’t touch him.” Dean says. “Don’t look at him. Don’t think about him.” Dean steps closer, Sam tucked behind the violence of his body.

“Don’t breathe near him.” Dean says, shoves the inexperienced body back so hard that the kid clips the edge of the school building, rough drag of brick.

The kid’s eyes shift from Dean to Sam, mountain-cat assessment, and finally, “Sam!” The kid yells, backbone flooding forth.

Dean’s already cuffing his sleeves, reaches behind his body without looking to knock Sammy further into his shadow. His hand clips Sammy’s smooth hipbone and Dean falters; a momentary weakness.

“I forgot,” Dean says, and he’s already rearing back and forward, thumb untucked from his fist like Dad.

There’s such a satisfying hum when his punch lands, connects to the shock of the boy’s face, shatters the kid’s jaw like sandcastles on the shoreline.

The kid goes down with so much speed that his knees crack on pavement and fall loose like detritus. Dean hunches down, arm coming back again, because he’s so ready.

“Don’t talk to him,” Dean says; his tongue is cumbersome in his mouth, fault of words.

The kid’s crying, ugly-wet in the silence of after-school and Dean can’t see that; he can only see hands curled around Sam’s waist, cheap thrill of hormones.

Dean’s next blow strikes the kid across the face, backhand of righteous anger. It’s in remembrance of the soft sound he pulled out of Sam’s mouth, and Dean’s vibrating so hard that he can’t  _ see. _

It’s not until Sam says his name, cotton-hush of his little brother’s voice, that Dean can turn around, cradle his mutilation to his chest until blood and leather mix like usual.

“I got a lotta homework,” Sammy says, and then he tucks himself up under Dean’s arm, catches Dean’s bruised knuckles up to the bitten-warmth of his mouth.

-

She rides Dean’s dick like a pro, takes him so deep into her ass it’s like coming face to face with his Creator.

Who, in His infinite wisdom, made Dean for a time such as this.

She’s long in every place that matters, legs curled up and over his shoulders, troll-bridge of her spine on Dean’s musky sheets.

She keens so pretty when his hips corkscrew that he does it one more time just to hear her yell like that.

She cries out once more, but it’s strangled.

Dean straightens up over her supine body, follows the terrified line of her eyes.

Sammy’s dropping his books down against the kitchen table, nudges his book-bag out of the way of Dean’s slightly ajar door. 

Dean catches Sammy’s eyes, Sam’s phoenix-smile, and he plugs up her ass with his come.

-

Sammy first breaks his legs apart on Dean when he’s sixteen, a few weeks after Chelsea has accidentally caught sight of Dean’s little brother, speared wide on Dean’s dick.

They’re leaving Nebraska this Sunday and Sam’s uncharacteristically excited about the whole affair, fever-shine of his eyes.

He slides the sun of his body down Dean’s one night, and Dean tenses in every place that matters.

Sam catches the crown of Dean’s dick in one warm fist and drags experimentally. Dean makes some kind of wounded animal cry and Sammy laughs, time-mark in the dead air.

“Think it’ll fit,” Sam whispers, even though it’s just them and it’s never been no damn secret.

“W-what?” Dean says, stupidstupid for Sam.

Sam’s patient, like always, and when Dean’s eyes finally adjust he can see the pale shadow of his little brother, shirt rucked up on his body, emptiness between his legs.

Sam’s as naked as the beginning underneath that shirt, and it’s one of Dean’s, Zeppelin, he thinks.

Dean’s hands curl around Sammy’s finger-bone hips on instinct, and his brother mewls, sweet little noise that makes Dean’s dick jump up into the crevice of Sam’s ass.

Sam’s hair tumbles down against his cheeks, and it’s dark in the room, hint of moonlight the only witness.

Sam’s wild-eyed; his feral boy, and Dean’s hips slap up again, punishing.

“C’mon,” Sam says, shimmies that ass down further, hesitant hump against Dean’s obvious arousal.

Dean’s alive, suddenly, tells Sammy to hang tight as he arches into the air with Sammy still locked on top. Dean shoves his boxers down his legs with one hand, past the muscle of his thighs.

Sammy smiles and twists halfway behind himself to push them all the way off, knock them over the catch of Dean’s feet.

Sam gasps, innocence is brilliant, and then he’s running callused hands all over the silk of Dean’s dick, and Dean’s gonna come before he tears his way inside the soft of his baby.

Sam grinds down in addition to his exploration, and Dean grunts, over-loud.

“Let me,” Dean begs, “I love you so much, sweetheart.” 

Sammy ducks, but Dean catches the line of teeth and Dean’s smiling against himself.

“You like that?” Dean adds, and Sam twists a little, catches Dean’s cock a little tighter in between that peach of a naked ass.

“Take this off?” Dean says, tugs on the hem of his own shirt. Sammy’s fluid in a way he’s got no right to be, disentangles himself with a finesse that Dean wouldn’t believe to see.

He gets Sammy naked and red-hungry, little-boy body with grown man muscles; his legs grow so long they’re strangling Dean up.

Sam eyes him pretty, and then reaches for Dean’s hand, the one not locked around his waist. Sammy raises Dean’s fingers to his mouth and  _ slurps,  _ and Dean actually might come dry.

Sammy’s tongue is wild within the webbing of his fingers, and he shoves Dean’s middle down the back of his throat so far that Sam gags softly and Dean has to pull back.

Sam releases his hand with a slick pop and rises a little on his knees, exposing the hard cut of his dick, the long aggression of it. 

Dean wants Sam to come all over, wants to see Sammy bounce on his dick like mine.

“Please?” Sam says, and Dean pushes one finger up so careful that Sam sighs heavily. Dean drags his index in Sam’s hole languidly, and pauses when it remains warm and wet--more so than Sammy has the right to be with just a little spit and a lot of need.

“Sam--” Dean says, but then Sammy punches his hips down and sighs, spine-low.

“Jesus Dean, fuck me, fuck me, fuck me,” Sammy says, and it’s a still a whisper but it’s catching volume and Dean can’t deny that, can’t stop the answering groan.

Dean removes his finger and hikes Sam into the air with both hands; his boy is cloud-thin and dangling.

Sammy’s mouth parts in shock and sex, and Dean can’t breathe.

“Put me in,” Dean directs; he’s gonna drop Sammy down on his dick; there’s a first time for everything.

Sammy nods, eager and free, and he fumbles a little on the dull-shine of Dean’s precome, baby hands stuttering as he angles it underneath his body, presses the slit against the gentle slope of his asshole.

Dean drops him, just a little, and Dean’s so loud when the head breaches that first line of muscle.

Sam’s honest-to-God wet inside, girl-moist, and Dean could cry for thinking of Sammy like that, legs curled up to his ears as he spears himself down on three-four fingers for Dean’s cock.

Sam’s mewling above him, latches his hands over top Dean’s.

“More,” Sammy says, already sweaty, breathlessness of his voice.

Dean shoves him down further, shudders to a stop at the halfway mark. 

Dean can feel his dick jerk within its middle-prison, and it’s blood-hot to the touch.

“You ready?” Dean says, and Sam’s head is so low, but Dean catches his baby’s nod and open-mouth keen when Dean slides home, rides it out on Sam’s slip n’ slide of an ass.

Dean can feel the squelch of lube once Sammy’s seated, and then Sammy flips his head up and leans down, careful O of his mouth.

He braces his palms against Dean’s pecs and rises, boy-shake of unused limbs. 

Up and down like time, and Dean’s mouth takes flight of his consciousness. 

“Christ. Jesus.” Dean says, and Sam’s breathing heavy. “Sammy-baby, God I love you. I ain’t never loved anyone like you,” Dean stutters, and Sammy swivels once, and it’s shy, like Sammy’s not sure how he did it.

Dean’s gonna come. Dean’s gonna come twelve strokes deep in his baby brother’s ass, cream his kid brother up and keep him stuffed.

“Gonna come,” Dean admits, and Sam’s lower mouth is trapped in between two rows of teeth.

“Wanna know how it feels,” Sammy says, dirty-thrill, and he drags that ass in a tight circle. “Wanna sleep with you on my legs,” Sammy says, and that’s all she wrote.

Dean’s mindless with release, he digs his nails into butterfly flesh and punches up, too-loud shout of satiation.

“God, God, God, Fucking God,” Dean pants and then Sammy’s jerking before his eyes, like a live Mona Lisa; he comes apart on Dean’s dick and Dean’s come and Dean’s body and Dean’s fucking dead, right here.

Sam slumps forward instantly, his body slapping against Dean’s bigger one, and Dean’s still more than half firm inside his brother’s ass.

Dean’s hand cards through Sammy’s damp hair, glide against his slick back.

Sam shakes with aftershocks, squeezes Dean’s dick so filthy-good Sammy can’t even be aware that he’s doing it.

Sam breathes loudly against Dean’s neck, and then,

“I hate them,” Sam says fervently, hotly, and Sammy bites down just a little on Dean’s throat, sharp nibble of teeth. “I hate every last one of ‘em.”

Dean presses his lips to the crown of Sam’s head.

-

When they drive out of town the next morning, Dean’s wearing crimson and leather, everything save the tips of his boots.

Sam’s virgin-clean in his lap; Dean’s legs a pillow for the steeple of Sam’s head.

 

**Author's Note:**

> murderer!Dean.
> 
> I hope you like this lady, here's to praying it did yours justice!
> 
> creep at brosamigos.tumblr.com


End file.
